The Lacquered White Rose
by ChocolateCarnival
Summary: It was the year 1990, the weeping willows' mournful evensong pigmenting the skies indigo-black as the ardent whispers of May heralded the call of summer. For young Evanore Lunaria Ollivander it was the start of her greatest adventure, the claiming of what was once hers. Female Harry Potter.


I've always wanted to write a Female Harry story and now that I've found my inspiration I cannot stop, I absolutely adore her :).

This story is quite slow burn, my loves, as it'll be gen until she's at least in Fifth Year.

But I do hope the mystery and intrigue will keep my darlings reading for me, I so adore my Eldritch monster children and with Tom...well let's just say it's going to be a dark and dangerous ride.

* * *

_**My Lady Basilisk**_

'_Yesterday the final petal curled its soft lure into bone.  
The flowerhead shed clean,  
I gathered up your spine and built you on a dark day…'  
~ Vanessa Angélica Villarreal [Corpse Flower]_

It was the year 1990, the weeping willows' mournful evensong pigmenting the skies indigo-black as the ardent whispers of May heralded the call of summer. The forgotten hamlet's timeless gloom was a stark reminder of the intricate threads stitching together the gloaming solstice.

Little Hangleton was anything but innocent, the endless firmament dyed lilac-grey with the rising moon as a forest of elm grew wild beneath the fading sunlight. Having forgotten its existence in the barren hinterland, only pitted roads and a crumbling shack represented the lives once lived here.

It was so far removed from consecrated ground that delicate gossamer threads bound itself to curious fingertips. Evanore Lunaria Ollivander was unafraid of the darkness cultivated here, drawing ever closer to the intricate spiderweb tugging incessantly at her soul. Delicate feet tread a darkling path only _she_ knew, a single thousand-year-old yew rising sentinel over the home's cursed hearth.

As the adopted daughter of Britain's foremost wandmaker, once heralded as a no-name blight by her relatives and neighbours alike; the quiescent girl stood firm. Hungry brambles were grasping desperately at porcelain skin, eager to drink in the taste of innocent blood as a single scar, carved into her brow, heated with momentary delight.

She was absolutely drenched in dark magic.

Something wicked had been laid to rest here, something so intrinsically twisted inside her that it answered to the call of _Anima Laqueum1_. As the sole apprentice of Garrick Ollivander, last Lord of the sacred twenty-eight, it was no surprise the young witch lent herself more to wand crafting than petty sorcery explored by children her age.

She was unique, her very existence irrevocably changed with the press of a soul not her own. Ammolite-green eyes, unnaturally bright and far too knowing, saw the world for what it was. She knew the threads of magic that comprised Britain's greatest achievements, the lies that manipulated her into the hands of her relatives and the life she would one day have sacrificed if her guardian had not found her wandering the edge of Knockturn Alley near starvation.

Words spoken in a language guarded by wand crafters for millennia, echoed wistfully on the edge of her periphery. Evanore was not afraid of the dying copse surrounding her, a curious button nose scenting the air for fresh loam and undeniable life. Peculiar pupiless green eyes refracted the stagnant skies above, swirls of dust and debris making it difficult to breathe as she marked a path towards her greatest adventure:

The claiming of her inheritance.

'_Your first wand will be the most difficult.'_ Lord Ollivander warned. _'It will also be your most important, Schneewittchen – the companion to your companion.'_

Evanore was just a few months shy of ten, the perfect age to start gathering materials for her first foray into wand making. For years she had studied and observed her father at work, eager to overcome each and every obstacle he placed before her. She had sworn to take over Ollivander's: _Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._, to become the Heir that died in his dreams along with his wife.

In that moment nothing mattered but her success, magical eyes turned towards the dilapidated shack rising from the ashes of a fallen bloodline. It was carefully concealed behind the gnarled claws of ancient yew, the building crafted like a macabre mausoleum. The tiled roof was sagging beneath broken rafters, shards of cracked tiles blown off by howling winds and luminescent moss distorting already-crooked walls.

A spectral hiss echoed from the carcass of a dead snake once nailed to the front door, it's life as a ghoulish doorknocker enough to frighten any child curious enough to approach the ragged doorway. The bone-white spine and skull, curled in a protective S, called her forward with a susurrus of sound only she had the ability to hear.

'_The Soul Snare or Mate Wand will be the first wand you gift to another. It's also the wand of the other half of your soul — should they be so inclined to accept it.' _Herfather's words ruminated. _'I still remember answering the call of my darling Selene's. The tree had been but a small sapling, unadorned and innocent, in the wastelands of Russia.' _His lamp-like eyes had glazed wistfully at the dust motes floating through their private workshop.

'_I was nine at the time, only just learned the language of the trees and destined to harvest its core a decade later. A handsome 9 and a half inches it was, cherry, bicorn2 tail-hair — delicate and flighty.' _

Smiling softly, Evanore took a steadying breath before reaching for the magic humming violently beneath her skin. There was a terrifying compulsion calling her to the shack, _somethin_g she had to find before she was permitted to harvest a single branch from the guardian yew.

To anyone else this was the stage where they turned tail and ran, a heady darkness spreading to the ground beneath her feet as the faint rays of the moon turned the soil infertile black. She clutched her harvest scythe close to her side, the impossible weapon an eldritch monster blessed by the Ollivander blood for centuries.

One could not collect wood for Dark wands, her father mused, without iron and steel and blood and death.

_§__Warm…I sssmell you…__§_A hiss erupted._§__Clossser… Yess… Clossser…__§_

The floorboards rustled like dry leaves, splintered wood digging into delicately stockinged feet. The black dress adorning her tiny frame, spread voluminous skirts in a waterfall around her as she knelt by the fireplace.

It was a shame Mr Ollivander had not been allowed to join her on this journey, she mused. Evanore would have appreciated his wandwaving skills. This may have been a matter only _she_ could solve, yes, a rite of passage so to speak. But that did not erase the sacrifice the forest demanded of her.

It was familiar here, however: hated, despised, shamed, twisted…_aware_.

That was how she knew she found the right place, gnawing teeth digging into carmine red lips as her leather satchel and harvesting scythe came to rest beside her. The hearthside flagstone was calling to her in hissing delight, blunt nails scraped raw in her effort to displace it before she thought of using her weapon as leverage.

There was a small rune carved into the cracked surface, the sound of ghostly scales sliding over raspy floorboards as the language of the snakes echoed with the heady warmth of midsummer. No serpent had betrayed her before.

Voided ammolite eyes flashed Avada Kedavra green with determination, a final heave shoving the capstone aside as the hissing melody grew louder in the depths of her mind. She dug through loosely packed dirt in search of the promised treasure.

It wasn't long until a tarnished tin box; battered and forgotten with age, came to rest in the palm of her hand. It took some work to clear away the decades of grime, the shrill screech of rusty hinges near deafening as a flash of knowing coloured pupiless eyes carmine red.

Long lashes dusted lightly freckled cheeks, bloodied fingers tugging at the velvet parcel within as delicately embroidered initials glittered in the spiralling moonlight.

T. M. R. it read.

How curious.

The packet was weighty and warm in her palm, a cautious shake depositing a beautiful onyx ring on pale skin. The beautifully worked gold was colder than ice and more dangerous than lightning, the very metal coiled with deadly precision and hate. The octahedron stone existed in a world of its own, sucking in the last rays of the gloaming sun.

"What—?!" Momentarily stunned at the blinding darkness, the nine-year-old listened intently to the waking cry of a lark outside. Day and night inverted, the ring buzzing discontentedly in her grasp before a split-second compulsion slid it over her finger.

A startled hiss instantly escaped parted lips, a rush of darkness threatening to overwhelm her from within as it tangled contentedly with the malleability of her core. A ghostly wind was tearing through thigh-length black locks, a howling scream echoing in the distance as her heart set itself aflame.

The erratic rhythm was trapped against a grotesque prison of blood and bone, her very soul _howling_ for freedom she did not know how to give.

Evanore wasn't so sure what happened, gasping screams echoing on her every exhalation as merciless spikes erupted from the interior of the ring. A pact sworn in blood and magic was all it took, the terrifying artefact coiling a possessive claw in the recesses of her very existence.

Her soul…it was searching, pillaging, needing to find something of like minds—.

Something _worthy_ of making his…

Evanore Lunaria Ollivander tumbled to the floor unconsciousness, her far-too-small frame curled in a protective ball as the soothing cry of a hundred snakes played unknown memories behind closed eyelids. Time was as an indiscernible tide, her magic twisting and turning and accepting as a shockwave of power exploded through the depths of the lifeless forest.

Little Hangleton tremored in its wake, the awakening of a young Mistress heralding the fate of the world. She had found exactly what her soul had been looking for, the promise of a new dawn and an unbreakable bond transcending the conventions of time.

**. . . **

"Thank you, Master Yew." The young witch curtsied in gratitude, a new treasure glinting black and gold on her left right finger as breaking dawn struggled to penetrate the hamlet's natural gloom. The ancient artefact had been magically resized to fit, elegant movements securing a better grip on her two-meter scythe before laying a grateful palm on the old sentinel's poisoned bark.

It was the first time Evanore felt sated and whole, almost as if she found the primordial piece of herself that had been missing since birth. The ancient tree bowed to her in supplication the moment she stepped outside the shack; its existence finally cleansed of a century worth of hatred and strife.

Even with its newly severed branch, bleeding venom and power; it ignited a powerful allegiance. _This is the genesis_, it prophesied to her. _It will be the timber that kindles the world's strongest wand._

A small colony of Bowtruckles were scuttling in a frenzy to stop the exsanguinating wound, only momentarily placated by the generous offering of woodlice Evanore presented in return. They still chittered in disgruntled anger, however. Only falling silent when the old tree hummed in placation and sealed its own wound.

_A single branch for a single wand,_ it murmured. _Worthy the sacrifice._

Yews were well known for their dyadic nature, a difficult wood to placate and in possession of an unyielding personality. To experience her first harvest from such a powerful existence was both a privilege and a wonder, a harbinger that Evanore Ollivander's Soul Bond was anything but ordinary.

Turning her back on the ancient Master after its sighed goodbye, torn feet retraced her steps back to the village where Mr Ollivander was waiting. The small adventure had taken more than the half-day her granted her to succeed, a wonder his hair didn't turn whiter than snow with worry.

On the way to the Silver Arms, Evanore took no notice of the elegant confidence lengthening her stride or the instinctual path she meandered without having been there before. A waterfall of raven-black was tangled down her back, dry leaves and broken twigs alighting heavily curled strands as a quick bow stirred the curtain of bangs concealing her forehead.

Her verdant gaze, Evanore knew, so like the Ollivanders after her blood adoption, were terrifying in their queerness. They had the ability to read both wands and wizards, magic threads and whispering fractures of the soul. It was a gift carried through the ancient Mediterranean bloodline; a secret that had been buried in the family since before Christ.

Their concealment didn't matter so much as the lightning bolt bisecting her forehead. _That_ was a secret her father paid in blood to keep, a promise that she would never have to be the precipice of another war. She was no symbol for the Light, nor bane of the Dark. No, Ollivander's Heiress, a tiny slip of a girl, was her own person. She was free to do whatever she wished, even if that was to one day take over the family business in her father's stead.

Stepping through the pub's heavily warded door, tired green eyes eagerly sought out the familiar shock of Mr Ollivander's grey hair. It didn't take long to spot the eccentric at the end of the bar, his large grey eyes assessing every inch of her frame for fatal injury before taking in the various cuts and bruises decorating pale skin.

Luckily that was nothing a bit of dittany wouldn't fix.

The joyful smile curling carmine lips was all he needed to see, contented triumph rolling off his tiny daughter in waves as the nine-year-old rushed forward to draw him into an exuberant embrace. The scent of apple wood and kindled flame was a soothing comfort, sure arms tightening around her in relief as he brushed a kiss to the top of a messy head.

"Did you succeed, little Schneewittchen?" He inquired politely.

"Yes, Papa." Evanore beamed. "I did! It was the handsomest yew I've ever seen." She babbled excitedly, a quick wave of his wand shrinking down the harvesting scythe before it could draw unwanted attention. The now half-inch charm quickly attached itself to gold and black finery, the antique bracelet a gift he presented to her last yule.

Hailing from the Victorian era, the unique black diamond heirloom had been found in his grandmother's dowry. It complimented the ebony and gold ring adorning her finger, a new addition yet to be noticed as she excitedly told him of the prophesy Master Yew sang for her.

"Curious, I say." He hummed thoughtfully, pupiless grey eyes shimmering with pride as he knelt down to inspect the generous branch Evanore extracted from her satchel. The wood was heavily encumbered with dark magic, imbibed with a startling duality (as yew often were), and magically preserved with one of his conjured ribbons.

It was solid black.

"For a dark wizard," She said sagely and he nodded. If it was for a light one, she would use white. Red for transfiguration masters, purple for charms enthusiasts, green for healers and silver for seers. All answers could be found in the properties of the wood if one knew how to look, not to mention the flexibility the core would bring later.

This particular wand however, would not work without an equally dynamic core.

"Well done, Evanore!" He clapped once, smiling joyfully as a dusting of pink coloured pale cheeks. Little Evie was not used to affection and praise, a difficult childhood having closed off most of her reactions from the world. She was a reticent child, adorably shy and pained by far too much hardship.

Taking the hand her father offered as they stepped outside the pub, the unbearable constriction and whirlwind of side-along Apparation soon announced their arrival at Diagon Alley. The skies were rumbling ominously black, the derelict gloom seeming to have followed them from the countryside as vibrant green eyes glanced up in curiosity.

The Wizarding Weather Report never mentioned London would drown in clouds, never mind the sharp drop in temperature. Not that it really mattered, Evanore thought. No weather, cold or hot, could dampen her joy at harvesting the wood for her first _Anima Laqueum._

"Up the stairs with you," Lord Ollivander urged her inside. "Put your things away and then get cleaned up. I'm sure Ditsy will have breakfast ready by then." The old shopkeeper could only stare in exasperation as another pair of ruined stockings raced up the stairs at his behest…not a single shoe in sight.

_Really!_

Evanore always seemed to lose her shoes and stockings regardless of the situation, whether it was intentional or not. It was obvious the little imp preferred the magic resonating beneath her feet rather than the wisps curling through the air, an indication that she was perhaps more elementally inclined than magically competent.

Whatever direction her studies took her in however, he would not protest. Evie was his little treasure, his princess Snowwhite found abandoned in the dark four years ago. He couldn't understand how anyone would be cold hearted enough to toss aside such a brilliant witch, everything she did was endearing and sweet.

Perhaps that was because she reminded him so much of his dead wife, he smiled. If only Selene were alive, he hummed thoughtfully. Their petite little Ollivander Heir would either grow to rule the world or rip it asunder.

**. . . **

Sylvosus Grove, hidden deep in the Norfolk countryside, surrounded itself in a blanket of contented silence. The stately Ollivander home towered over the surrounding marshlands, its very existence echoed in the melancholic architecture of 1115. The unplottable castle was the perfect repellent against muggles and wizards alike, a cursed forest baring entry from any point but the monolith egress.

Evanore quite enjoyed the silence of the Keep, its haunted structure echoing centuries of history as a fine accompaniment to turned and twisted hallways. The stone, granite and ebony wood often spoke of things heady and dark, an unholy promise sealed in the walls as bare feet meandered the primordial galleries.

How strange that she felt a part of herself missing so acutely. The yew of her first harvest had been locked away in Father's workshop until she could identify the core and collect it. Only the steady heartbeat of her newest treasure, almost as if it possessed a consciousness of its own, kept her from falling into idle despair.

It was an unusual little creation, she mused. The octahedron stone had been in her possession for a week but she couldn't bear to part with it for more than a moment. It was as if a rose of thorns twined itself through her very existence, threatening to pierce her heart for every attempted separation.

Father had checked the ring for malicious curses and unbound magic several times now, only to find none. The ring was saturated in ancient Lordship defences, a long-lost heirloom that found her magic worthy of inheritance and protection regardless of bloodline or age.

The Gaunt family, however, had long since died out it incestral insanity.

It made her what made her so special to come into its possession.

Humming in thought as she passed the threshold of her room, elegant fingers unclasped the beautiful sapphire cloak draped around her shoulders. The night had been long and arduous, unsure movements changing into a summer nightdress as she placed her clothes in the hamper for house-elves to collect.

Today it had been an ensemble of beige trousers, riding boots and intricate riding coat. The cinched waist and train of blue velvet and lace, trailed delicate folds to the back of her knees. It was tailored riding clothes often worn when visiting her eight-legged Granian stabled at Malfoy Manor…and making nice with the Heir himself.

Just because she was her father's pride and joy however, did not mean Evanore enjoyed the pureblood gatherings he sometimes forced her to attend. She was painfully shy by nature, absolutely terrified someone would one day discover her deception and the mark bisecting her forehead—.

Startled from her thoughts by a sudden hoot, Evanore twisted herself away from smoothing out her coat. Asmodai, her screech owl, had perched himself on the edge of her Victorian dresser. The polished mahogany and inlaid silver crafted a fine focus, curtained green eyes briefly catching sight of her blank expression as she settled herself on the velvet stool.

The dresser top was covered in scattered parchment, several unsealed letters and a thick family tome. There was no box of jewellery or expensive perfume Pureblood girls often indulged in, only a single, antique, hairbrush laid out among scholarly research. Evie absently grasped the handle after undoing the braid down her back, making sure to brush out any lingering tangles as thick bangs whispered across childlike cheeks.

Hair-veiled eyes remained completely unseen, even if she never failed to observe every little detail conspiring in the outside world. Her shy reticence, shielded eyes and studious nature already marked her an Ollivander eccentric, a gift she often enjoyed despite the condemnation. It was a title she wouldn't trade for the world, regardless of the teasing it visited upon her soul.

_§__Hnnn…__§_A syrupy hiss caressed the shell of her ear, halting the brush mid-stroke as curiosity tilted her head to the side. Evanore was not sure if the fleeting whisper was a figment of her imagination or not, goosebumps erupting on the back of her neck as a single, exposed, iris gazed at the shadows weaving a distinct shape in the reflection of her looking glass.

_§__How curious…__§_ The velveteen voice crooned, ghostly fingers coming to rest on small shoulders as a flash of serpentine red froze the edge of her vision. A crack of frost carved tiny fissures into polished glass, the newly formed outline blurry and indistinct as roaring flames coloured the hearth ominous black.

The flickering darkness emphasized the shade of a boy, his figure seeming to shift between the ages of sixteen and ten. Distinct slit-eyed pupils were drawn to the ebony-gold adorning her left ring finger, a sly smile curling pale lips as he reached forward to touch icy metal.

_§__Mine.__§_He intoned hedonistically.

Evanore shuddered in caution, turning away from ghostly fingers caressing her cheek. The fleeting graze twisted a delighted shock down her spine, lodging a shaky inhalation in the back of her throat as a curious inquiry silenced itself on the tip of her tongue. She wasn't sure what to say, unwilling to lift her gaze from sanguine red as pink lips parted for a hiss of her own.

_§__Yours?__§_

_§__Yes, __**mine.**__**§**_ The teen emphasized, _§__My__Lady Basilisk, Queen Parselmouth… Evanore. Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".__§_ Before verdant eyes could widen in surprise at the correct guess of her name's origin, the presence dissipated in a cowl of shadow and smoke. The air he left behind was stagnant and frozen, a curious touch skimming over humming metal he caressed before.

The magic encompassing small shoulders was unholy black, its very presence surrounding a petite nine-year-old frame in deadly promise. The frantic beat of her heart soared briefly from the confines of its cage, untouched yearning blossoming in its wake as a satisfied hum escaped parted pink lips.

"Who are you?" She asked the empty air, not really expecting a reply as a surge of assurance prompted her to continue her task. Rhythmic movements were detangling the raven mess tumbling down her back, the individual strands eventually shimmering iridescent-black in dancing firelight.

It didn't take long for exhaustion to creep over tired limbs, Evanore quickly handing over the rest of her task to Mitsy. The house-elf merely snapped long fingers before long, black waves ensnared themselves in a loose braid, a silver tie accentuating the pristine white of her nightdress and heavy blue duvet.

The heavy oak canopy was as black as night, hefty curtains tumbling in waves to the floor as silk sheets slid welcomingly against porcelain skin. Dark eyes drifted around the darkening room in search of the mysterious presence once more, curling discontentedly into thick eiderdown pillows when there was nothing to be found.

That night Evanore dreamt of silken whispers and poetry, of Edgar Allan Poe and The Raven…

'_Once upon a midnight dreary,' _The boy sang._ 'While I pondered, weak and weary,  
'Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—'_

'_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door…'_

'"'_Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—  
Only this and __**nothing more**__…__**"'**_

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1 Anima Laqueum – Soul Snare / Soul Bind

2 Bicorn – Unicorn with two horns


End file.
